


Devotions.

by outpastthemoat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Master and Apprentice - Claudia Gray
Genre: Gen, Kyber Crystals (Star Wars), Lightsaber Construction (Star Wars), Lightsaber Training (Star Wars), Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Star Wars Disney Canon Compliant, jar'kai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28846338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outpastthemoat/pseuds/outpastthemoat
Summary: Your lightsaber is your life, his master tells him, early on in his apprenticeship.  Your blade will be devoted to you, and so you must devote your life to your lightsaber in turn.  Keep it close.This is the first lesson Obi-Wan learns, sitting at his master’s feet and watching closely as Qui-Gon bends over his lightsaber.(A story about lightsabers, masters, and apprentices.)
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 66
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyber-erso (aoraki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoraki/gifts).



> Kyber-erso's endlessly lovely art was the inspiration behind this story. I often go their instagram and scroll through all the lovely artwork posted there for inspiration - each piece is so evocative and atmospheric in such different and marvelous ways. And while I was scrolling, some of their artwork seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle, and a story started to form in the spaces between these pieces. So this story rightfully belongs to kyber-erso, without whom this fic would not exist.

_ Your lightsaber is your life, _ his master tells him, early on in his apprenticeship.  _ Your blade will be devoted to you, and so you must devote your life to your lightsaber in turn. Keep it close. _

This is the first lesson Obi-Wan learns, sitting at his master’s feet and watching closely as Qui-Gon bends over his lightsaber.

“A lightsaber is not a tool, but a friend,” his master remarks, ruefully rubbing out a smudge by his saber’s emitter. “And friends require the utmost care.”  Qui-Gon strokes the hilt with his thumb again, thoughtful, in a pensive mood that Obi-Wan has not yet learned to understand. Then, seeming to make a decision, he places the lightsaber on the low table and stands up, striding over to the shelves by the window. 

Among the riot of potted plants and assorted treasures, there is a small box made from a soft green wood and carved with vines and leaves. Qui-Gon picks up the box and returns to the low table. He removes from the box a cube of wax and polishing cloth, and the miniature tools used for scouring dirt and sand from the ridges of a hilt. 

Obi-Wan watches from off to the side, feeling out of place in his master’s private rooms. He has not yet seen his master’s lightsaber up close before, and the proceedings are of great interest to him. Qui-Gon polishes the hilt until the chromium gleams like the flashing silver scales of the ik’e fish that dart beneath the surface of the reflection pools in the Temple gardens.  His master's hands touch his lightsaber with reverence, and something more besides: Fondness, an affection that is not out of place for a partnership of many years. 

Qui-Gon notices him. This is not unexpected; his master notices everything. But Obi-Wan is startled when Qui-Gon sets the polishing cloth aside and says tolerantly, “Well, padawan, you might as well come and see.”

He kneels at Qui-Gon’s side to watch. Qui-Gon holds the saber out in his palm, then takes his hand away. The lightsaber remains in mid-air. 

Slowly the pieces of the hilt draw apart. Components float in the air between them.

“Each piece fitting in place, just so,” Qui-Gon explains, “see there, padawan? There is no other place for this crystal than right here. See how it fits exactly.”

“Yes, master. I see.”

The remainder of the hilt floats apart and reveals the interior, wiring and plasma charges. And there is the heart of the saber itself, a kyber crystal, green as a conifer leaf.

“Just so,” Qui-Gon murmurs.

The kyber gleams at him with almost a conspiratorial wink. Obi-Wan glances at his master, but Qui-Gon’s face remains frustratingly impassive. He wishes suddenly to be able to touch the crystal, to check and see if it truly meant that glimmer of mischief. But he doesn’t dare reach out. A saber is such a personal thing, the one true possession most Jedi can call their own. Obi-Wan has no right to touch what does not belong to him.

“One’s kyber is not only a focus for the Force, to help you hear and understand the Force’s call. Your kyber will respond to you, your emotions and feelings, and be shaped accordingly. A harmonious relationship.”

Obi-Wan looks fixedly into his master’s face, the look of steady determination there, how his gaze focuses on the kyber that floats just above his palm.  Then the components of the saber draw back together and reconnect. Qui-Gon reaches into the air and takes the lightsaber in his hand, balancing the hilt on his palm.

_ And what is in your heart, master?  _ Obi-Wan wants to ask.  _ Does your kyber know?  _

His master surprises him by smiling, almost all the way to his eyes—and unexpectedly places his lightsaber in his padawan’s hands.

“See for yourself,” his master suggests.

Obi-Wan examines the saber closely, turning it all around. There is the sleek chromium in patterns of crested waves along the hilt, the power cells stacked in rows along the grip. It is a unique look, one Obi-Wan has not seen before. The saber dwarfs his smaller hands, built for a grip much larger than his own. Yet the saber feels comfortable, solid, true. 

And there is that hint of mischief again, seemingly out of place for the little that he knows about his master.

_ How does he truly feel about me? _ he wonders at the kyber.  _ What is he like, do you know? Could you tell me? _

His new master has been polite, accepting. He does not outwardly show displeasure or annoyance. But Obi-Wan cannot help but feel that he is an intruder in the solitary life Qui-Gon has carved out for himself: His single room, with no space for a padawan; his lonely travels through the galaxy on remote missions. 

All he knows is that Qui-Gon had not asked for him.

The kyber seems pleased to be asked, responding eagerly to his inquiry. Obi-Wan offers a hesitant tendril of Force towards it, and it answers in return:  _ Evergreen trees, always loyal, always true; rocks in a tidepool and the wind whipping around a corner; the scent of mint tea and damp soil. _

“It’s  _ you _ ,” he tells Qui-Gon, delighted. “It couldn’t be anyone else’s lightsaber—it belongs to you.” 

His master looks at him strangely, and once more Obi-Wan worries that he has given the wrong answer. He returns the lightsaber, feeling a flush growing on his cheeks. 

_ Can I ever learn to be what he wants?  _ he wonders with a pang. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His master teaches him jar’kai from the very start of his training in Ataru. 

art by [kyber_erso](https://www.instagram.com/kyber_erso/)

* * *

His master teaches him jar’kai from the very start of his training in Ataru. 

In the beginning, Obi-Wan uses a practice saber borrowed out of the initiate’s training rooms, held loosely in his left hand. In his right, he holds his own saber, so recently built that the chromium overlay on the hilt still feels slick against his fingers. The twin blades, yellow and blue, flicker across the inside of his eyelids when he blinks. 

“You will benefit from learning the Ataru cadences with both hands, starting with the first levels,” Qui-Gon tells him after that first training session, and so Obi-Wan clips the training saber to his belt next to his own, to use in their sequestered daily trainings in a well-lit practice room, with wood floors built from warm, honey-colored kao wood and high, vaulted ceilings. 

Qui-Gon is known to be the authority in Ataru, and has made a name for himself against practitioners of the more popular forms. In their practices, Qui-Gon carries his distinctive green blade in his left hand, and his own specialized shoto in his sword hand, a shorter hilt but easily recognizable as a miniature of his main weapon. This is, he explains, his personal preference; he would rather carry his more familiar weapon on his weaker side, allowing him to put the less frequently used shoto to better use in his dominant hand. 

He allows Obi-Wan to examine the shoto during their first practice session. “I keep this shoto for training only,” Qui-Gon explains. “I find that a second weapon too often gets in the way in the field—it can cause more harm than benefit. 

“And,” he adds wryly, “it is one more saber to replace when lost.” 

Obi-Wan ignites his lightsabers, his own saber brilliant and sparking, the practice saber glowing outwardly but with no inner light. He cannot help wishing for the connection his master has with his own lightsaber and shoto. Low-grade kyber crystals are used in a student’s electroblades, and initiates cannot achieve harmony in the Force with such crystals. 

Qui-Gon ignites his lightsabers as well, and the room is lit up with green. 

“Let us begin," he says, and falls into the first cadence. 

Obi-Wan follows his master's movements. The Ataru patterns come to him easily enough; he can move through the katas gracefully, even with the additional blade. But he rapidly finds that he struggles in sparring against Qui-Gon. He cannot anticipate even the most basic forms that his master uses against him.

“Stop.”

Obi-Wan halts. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the edge of his sleeve, unable to look directly at his master. Qui-Gon is a quiet man. He does not share much of himself with his new padawan, and it is difficult to tell what lies underneath his calm exterior. He does not grow angry at Obi-Wan’s mistakes, nor does he speak with impatience, but all the same, Obi-Wan finds himself flinching away from his soft-spoken corrections. 

“I don’t know what the problem is,” he confesses to Qui-Gon. It’s not that he doesn’t know the sequences. He has practiced them until he has burned them into his muscles like a brand. But there is something holding him back when faced against an opponent. 

His master agrees. “It is not your ability,” Qui-Gon says, frowning. “Tell me what you sense of your practice saber.”

Obi-Wan can find the Force around his own blade, the Force sparking and glittering like the tail of embers against a night sky; all he must do is follow those lines that the Force shows him, and the katas fall into place. But his practice saber feels sluggish and lifeless in his left hand. The yellow blade blazes with light, but there is no energy driving him to action.

The borrowed saber feels like a void. 

A lightsaber should be an extension of a Jedi’s connection to the Force. Obi-Wan is using the saber; not the other way around. 

Qui-Gon’s face takes on a look of keen consideration when Obi-Wan tells him this, and takes the practice saber from Obi-Wan’s hand. 

“You have always built the strongest bonds with those closest to you,” his master muses. “Your ability to focus a kyber might be no exception. Perhaps you would do better with a lightsaber you already know and trust.” 

With a decisive move, he extinguishes the yellow-bladed practice saber, and unclips his own lightsaber from his belt. He holds it out, hilt first, to Obi-Wan. “Try this instead.”

Obi-Wan accepts the hilt carefully, holding it with both hands. He is honored that his master allows him to hold his own weapon, such a personal possession to a Jedi. 

“Connection first,” Qui-Gon says. “Close your eyes and fall into a meditative state. And when you are ready, try to locate the kyber.”

Obi-Wan does as his master asks and closes his eyes. He reaches out with the Force, seeking, a questioning tendril. And to his surprise and delight, Qui-Gon’s kyber responds instantly; a different frequency and sensation from his own lightsaber, but familiar nonetheless in Qui-Gon’s same manner, easy to work with, calmness and dignity, perhaps slightly amused at Obi-Wan’s delight, reminding him of his master’s crooked smile when Qui-Gon is satisfied with his progress. 

He opens his eyes and glances up at Qui-Gon. 

His master looks pleased. “I thought so,” he says, more to himself than to Obi-Wan. “Now, padawan. Let’s try once more.”

Obi-Wan ignites his master’s saber as well as his own, and the green and blue blades light up the practice room. He moves through the cadence, but not by himself; Qui-Gon’s saber moves with him, alternatingly pushing him and pulling him into the correct form. He cannot keep himself from grinning. This, _this_ is how it is supposed to feel, he realizes with delight.

“Good, Obi-Wan. Now again.”

When the cadence is completed once more, he extinguishes the saber and offers it back to his master. But Qui-Gon makes no effort to take it back, and Obi-Wan wonders again, what his master is thinking.

“Keep it, for now,” Qui-Gon says unexpectedly. “We will practice again tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You must be devoted to your lightsaber, his master had told him early on, and Obi-Wan has tried to follow this guidestone. He keeps his own lightsaber polished and well-cared for, always swinging in its place at his hip, regularly taking his saber apart to check and modulate the connectors inside regularly. 

You must be devoted to your lightsaber, his master had told him early on, and Obi-Wan has tried to follow this guidestone. He keeps his own lightsaber polished and well-cared for, always swinging in its place at his hip, regularly taking his saber apart to check and modulate the connectors inside regularly. 

It has not been long since Qui-Gon had taken him on as his padawan, more recently still since Obi-Wan had gone with him to Ilum to find his kyber crystal and build a lightsaber of his own. The newness of having a lightsaber of his own has not yet worn off, and Obi-Wan suspects it never will.

He is awed by his master’s lightsaber that first day of keeping it. The hilt is far longer than his own, and jostles uncomfortably at his side as he walks through the corridors of the temple. The presence of Qui-Gon’s eclipses the presence of his own saber somehow. Obi-Wan keeps the saber close, afraid of losing this one even more than losing his own. Qui-Gon would surely never forgive him for that. 

At their next training session, Qui-Gon nods towards his saber at Obi-Wan’s belt. “How has it been?”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan replies, suddenly unsure. “I can tell it’s there, all the time. It—stands out, rather. I’ve tried not to handle it too much.”

“That won’t do,” Qui-Gon says crisply. “A lightsaber must be used in order to build a connection. How else will you become familiar with it?”

And so after that, Obi-Wan devotes his free time to caring for the saber. He removes it from his belt in the safety of his room and polishes the hilt, charging the power modules, carefully cleaning dust from the grooves with the miniature hydrospanner. After several nights of attention, he begins to talk to the lightsaber as he works. 

“I suppose I’m not quite the same,” he says apologetically to the saber as he rubs the cloth over the chromium plating. “You’re used to _him_. Well, I’ll do my best to treat you like he would, I promise.” 

Is he imagining it, or does the kyber respond to his words? Obi-Wan isn’t sure. But the next night, as he spreads it out on his table and fetches the cloth, there’s a hint of anticipation, a flare in the Force that takes him by surprise.

“You know what’s coming,” Obi-Wan says, delighted. “You remember me!”

He does not neglect his own saber. He cares for it after he finishes with Qui-Gon’s. “So new, your chromium’s not even nicked,” he tells it. After he cleans both sabers, he places them side by side on the table to compare them. 

Qui-Gon’s has scarring along the hilt, a nick by the emitter plate. His own lightsaber closely resembles his master’s, with a line of power cells down the handle and smooth swirls of chromium starting at the emitter and running down the grip. He had decided, when he first began to design a lightsaber of his own, to base his look off Qui-Gon’s. He could think of no one else he wanted to emulate. 

The crechemasters all say that to look upon a Jedi’s lightsaber is to understand what lies in that Jedi’s heart. The design of the hilt, the metals and materials used; these choices make each lightsaber unique to their owner. It is true that the Jedi value tradition, that they seek not attention or praise, but it is untrue that to be a Jedi is to lose one’s sense of individuality. 

The Temple meals are simple and an initiate's clothes are made out of plain lines and muted tones. Perhaps that is why an initiate might have constructed lightsaber hilts in their dreams for years before their gathering at Ilum, perhaps that is why the avid topic of discussion in the creche is of lightsabers.

_Have you seen Master D’junso’s hilt? Made of pure clear rassic-crystal, you can see through to the kyber and componants inside._

_What of the saber of Knight Nastiri, with the Mirrilian pattern of black-blue diamonds across her grip?_

_When I am grown, I will build a lightsaber like Master Shoonti’s, with a convex curve to the emitter plate._

In the creche, Obi-Wan had dreamed of thousands of lightsabers with his arms tucked behind his head, the quiet breathing of his clanmates surrounding him as his friends slept on. He had built and taken apart hundreds of lightsabers during those sleepless nights, and wielded these fantasies in dream-battles and training sessions. But before, when he tried to picture whose his own saber might resemble, his mind had always come up blank. 

And then he became a padawan.

Then he had found that he respected Qui-Gon above all other Jedi, that he wanted to honor him somehow. And when it came time to build his own lightsaber on Ilum, he had thought of his master’s hilt, how the chromium was etched in scallops around the black power cells, and incorporated those elements in his own design. 

He had been thrown into doubt again once he finished, on that long snowy hike back through the caves, arctic winds blowing into his eye and bits of ice catching in his eyelashes. He had meant it as an honor. But his master is so difficult to read. What would he think?

He had returned to the entrence of the caves and held out the finished lightsaber to his master, hope surging high, and carefully watched Qui-Gon’s face, impassive as he took up the blade. And to his surprise, Qui-Gon’s eyes had softened.

“Well, then, Obi-Wan,” he murmurs. He had said nothing more. But he had gone on looking at Obi-Wan’s lightsaber for a long moment before handing it back.

Obi-Wan releases the memory with a sigh. He finishes his work and puts his polishing cloth away.

He puts his master’s lightsaber on the table by his sleepcouch, and puts his own right beside it. He palms off the glowbanks and slips underneath his blankets. He can sense a slow, rhythmic vibration coming from Qui-Gon’s kyber, the purr of a contented lothcat. 

“He took me on, you know,” Obi-Wan tells the saber. “He didn’t have to do that—but I don’t know why he did. It’s a mystery, I suppose.” 

And he sighs again. There is so much he doesn’t know about his master. 

“I bet you already know all about him,” he says to the saber. “Supposing you tell me what he was thinking?” 

The kyber gives a brief quiver of amusement, but if it is capable of understanding Qui-Gon, it keeps its findings to itself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that, Obi-Wan makes certain to talk to the lightsaber whenever he can. 

After that, Obi-Wan makes certain to talk to the lightsaber whenever he can. A half-yawned greeting when he first wakes—hurried descriptions of the murals painted on the walls of the corridors as he hurries to his classes—idle chatter as he performs his chores. 

Obi-Wan is busy with additional duties as a padawan, some required, some unasked; simply ones that he feels compelled to take on. Qui-Gon seems to spend little time in his own quarters, preferring to be constantly on the move, traveling to another planetary dispute or sector negotiation. Consequently his quarters have a neglected air to them that Obi-Wan notices whenever he visits his master’s rooms. 

“Well, I haven’t spent much time here since—” Qui-Gon begins when Obi-Wan asks him about it. He stops abruptly, and then clears his throat. “Well, not for quite some time,” he amends himself. 

“I see,” Obi-Wan says. Qui-Gon is looking around his rooms as though seeing them for the first time: The fine layer of dust lining the ceramic pots and wooden boxes on the shelves, the cluttered corners of datapads and piles of flimsi, and long-abandoned tea cups left forlorn on the arms of the chair and window ledge. 

Obi-Wan catches a flash of—well, something. His master is saddened to be here, he realizes suddenly. How had he known that? he wonders. Perhaps a stray feeling trailing through the thin connection of their mental link, almost non-existent except for rare moments of strong emotion. 

Faceted layers of complex emotion, originating from Qui-Gon and reflected back to Obi-Wan in fractals. The kyber, then. 

So Obi-Wan does his best to do a little, whenever he can. Wiping down the low table and meditation cushions, sweeping the floors, straightening the stacks of datapads. He likes to have a reason to visit Qui-Gon in his rooms, even if the reason is only to polish the boots that his master leaves crumpled in a heap by the entrance.

“That’s not necessary,” Qui-Gon says when he notices his padawan’s occupation. 

“That’s all right,” says Obi-Wan. “I just wanted to.”

“Well, thank you, padawan.” 

Qui-Gon is often absent from his quarters, visiting acquaintances in other parts of the Temple or conferring with councilors. He has given Obi-Wan a free rein to his rooms, and so often Obi-Wan spends his afternoons after his classes tidying up. 

He talks to the lightsaber as he works. Little things—nothing, really. He talks about what he is doing, describing how he washes the ceramic tea cups one by one in the sink, or complaining mildly about the mud that is left to dry on Qui-Gon’s boots after his energetic perambulations through the arboreum. 

“Carefully,” he explains to the lightsaber as he wipes the inside of a chipped tea cup made from Rillani ceramics. “Like this, see? You don’t want the crack to spread. Then he’d have to throw it away.”

Not that Qui-Gon would particularly mind. His philosophy is that things are made to be used. Including lightsabers.

Qui-Gon had said that his lightsaber ought to be handled, but Obi-Wan has not yet dared to even ignite the green blade. It still seems disrespectful. Initiates are drilled on the mantra that a weapon should never be picked up unless a Jedi means to use it. That had not stopped Obi-Wan from experimenting with his own lightsaber on their return from Ilum, spending hours when he ought to have been studying or sleeping simply turning the blade on and off again, letting the plasma light up their cabin in shades of blue until Qui-Gon had wearily told him _That’s quite enough for now_.

Obi-Wan finds work to do in his master’s quarters even during the times when Qui-Gon leaves the Temple on missions without his new padawan. He had offered Qui-Gon his lightsaber back before his departure, but his master had shook his head.

“The shoto will suffice for now,” Qui-Gon had replied. “I leave my lightsaber under your protection.”

He had brushed Obi-Wan’s shoulder with his hand and smiled, but there was no reassurance behind the gesture, no echo of calm certainty from the kyber. 

It had felt wrong to watch the tall figure striding away, knowing that he was being left behind. Obi-Wan had wanted to argue, to hurt protests at him— _I could help you, I know I could—Haven’t you started to trust me yet?—Don’t you want me at your side?—What else is a padawan_ for _?_

But there is no changing Qui-Gon’s mind. 

So instead Obi-Wan invents chores in Qui-Gon’s quarters. Surely the floors have never been this clean, the dishes never so neatly organized, the windows so clear that sunlight is finding its way back inside.

Since Qui-Gon is not here, Obi-Wan talks to his lightsaber. He tells about the night he and his clanmates had slipped away to bathe in the fountains and how cold the halls had been as he had run back to their dormitory in soaking wet robes. About how his struggles in his astronavigation class. About the first time he had ever seen Qui-Gon. 

He stays as long as he possibly can, soaking up the faint, lingering presence of his master until night comes and he is out of excuses. Then he takes Qui-Gon’s lightsaber back to his own small quarters.

In the absolute darkness of his room, he can tell Qui-Gon’s lightsaber things he had never dared to tell his master. How badly he had wanted to be chosen. How it had felt to see his friends leave, one by one, until he alone was left waiting for his turn. What it had meant when Qui-Gon had agreed to take on his training. How it feels now, to be left behind and forgotten.

“I am so lonely,” Obi-Wan whispers into the empty room, the words he has not been able to tell his own master, and feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

The kyber hums in sympathy, and a memory opens up like the petals of a flower: A young boy with light brown hair flopping in his eyes, tucked away in a moss-covered corner of a garden, far away from his master, as far as he can get. 

Obi-Wan does not know this boy. Does he?

Loneliness resonates from the boy as he lowers his face into his arms. Nearby plants struggle to lean closer to this boy, offering outstretched branches and reaching flower stems to comfort him.

The kyber trills questioningly. _Like this?_ it seems to be asking. 

It understands his loneliness, Obi-Wan realizes. 

_Yes,_ he replies. _Like that._

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan is restless, left alone in the Temple, his clanmates vanished on missions of their own. There are lessons, true, and the work Qui-Gon has left him, but beyond that there is nothing but a vast expanse of time to fill.

art by kyber_erso

* * *

Obi-Wan is restless, left alone in the Temple, his clanmates vanished on missions of their own. There are lessons, true, and the work Qui-Gon has left him, but beyond that there is nothing but a vast expanse of time to fill.

He takes to wandering through the arboreum, exploring a corner of cannock palms and rhy grass that billows gently in the artificial breeze. His boots get as muddy as Qui-Gon’s. 

“I wish he’d taken you with him at least,” he says to his master’s lightsaber. “Not that I’m not pleased to have you—I’m glad you’re here. But he might need you. I hope he’s all right.”

He takes the saber back to Qui-Gon’s rooms and looks once more at the trinkets on the shelves, and the saber shares memories with him of all the occasions Qui-Gon had picked up these objects. How a windchime made of pink shells as thin as a fingernail had caught Qui-Gon’s eye on Ashorrel, how his master had discovered this bottle filled with pale blue sand on the beaches of Hycanthium.

“He’s been so many places,” he says. “Think he’ll take me anywhere?”

The kyber buzzes at him soothingly. It sends Obi-Wan an image of a child, as though from the perspective of a much taller adult, a head of messy reddish-brown hair that barely touches the viewer’s elbow; then another image of that same auburn head several handspans taller. This does not seem to be a memory of Qui-Gon’s, but rather an observation made by the kyber itself.

“I’m not too young,” Obi-Wan says patiently, “but I think I know what you mean.”

In return, Obi-Wan shares more of himself with the kyber. Haltingly he begins to share the way he’d felt when Master Yoda had told him that he had been assigned a master, not chosen. _Ah, young Obi-Wan,_ Master Yoda had said, his ears twitching forward. _A master, you have needed, hmm? A master, have we found for you._

He had felt his excitement evaporate. All he could take in was that he had not been chosen. Not wanted. Assigned, that was all. 

How angry he had felt. How unwanted. And the kyber listens attentively. “I should be grateful,” he confesses. “But I’m not.”

The kyber understands, even this. 

So Obi-Wan goes on to tell the kyber about other stories, other emotions. A trip to Alderaan for the Midwinter Festival when he was very young, how when he was a bit older he had liked to wander through the shops and vendors in the area close to the Temple. How he’d felt winning a tournament as an initiate, how pleased he’d been and how much he’d hoped a master would choose him then. 

He talks to the kyber for hours, late into the night. All the experiences, all the feelings he might have been sharing with Qui-Gon himself, if his master had been here to listen.

\---

With his master gone, Obi-Wan must practice alone. 

Qui-Gon has reserved a time for him to use the training room each day he is away, and Obi-Wan is under instructions to attend a daily workout just as he would have if his master had been here, continuing his work on the dual Ataru cadences Qui-Gon had taught him before he left on his mission. 

“And I will know if you have not practiced,” his master had added as an afterthought. His face, when Obi-Wan glanced quickly at him, had been a study of calmness, but he thought—could it be?—that there was a flicker of the mischief he had first noticed in his kyber crystal. 

So Obi-Wan makes his way towards up the levels, dreading it rather. He is unused to training by himself. Initiates had never been allowed the responsibility of working by themselves, always chaperoned and guided by their crechemaster or Master Drallig. 

The room is empty when he arrives. He flicks on the glow panels, and the training room is cast into bright amber light. There are the reed mats used for stretching, stacked up against the wall, the long mirror that one might use to check one’s form, the remote droids and helmets used for drilling Shii-Choo on a low shelf, a cache of electroblades in a cabinet at the far end of the room. Everything in its place. 

“He said he’d know,” Obi-Wan reminds the sabers, and lays them down carefully by the mirror.

He stretches on the floor to warm his muscles, then vaults to his feet. On a whim, he takes off his boots. Initiates often practice without footwear in order to cultivate balance and to promote a sense of awareness in one’s surroundings. He had always trained with his boots on when he had worked with his master. 

Now Obi-Wan delights in the glowbank-warmed kao wood under his bare feet. He presses his toes into the supple wood, chosen for its flexibility, and the wood bends under his weight, shifting along with his movements. 

There is eagerness vibrating through the floor and through his feet. His kyber crystal, anticipating their practice.

He picks up his lightsaber, leaving his master’s on the floor off to the side. His kyber responds instantly, understanding what is coming next. Obi-Wan swipes his thumb lovingly against its grip, allowing his kyber’s eagerness to flow through him. 

He opens himself up to the Force, and begins.

Obi-Wan starts with the cadence that Qui-Gon had shown him, going slowly through the movements. Too slow, according to his saber. His kyber urges him on, _faster, faster,_ and he stumbles. 

“Slowly now,” Obi-Wan tells his kyber. “Good and slow.” 

He tries again, but once more his lightsaber rushes ahead, pulling him through the movements too quickly. His kyber ought to aid him in focusing the Force, but it is young still, and its eagerness is overpowering him. Finally he halts, shaking the stinging sweat from his eyes. He drinks from his canteen, and considers ending his practice. 

Qui-Gon’s words dance warningly in his ears. 

_I will know, padawan_.

“I wish you were here,” Obi-Wan says out loud. “You could tell me what I’m doing wrong. I’m not supposed to be doing this by myself.”

A thrumming across the floor, a wave of reassurance and calming radiating towards him. Qui-Gon’s lightsaber, trying to comfort him. He is surprised at the saber’s initiative. Perhaps they have bonded more than he had thought.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to use you,” Obi-Wan tells it. “It’s not proper.”

His master’s kyber insists. It projects an image of Obi-Wan with a lightsaber in both hands, green and blue.

Meant to be used, Qui-Gon had said.

“All right,” Obi-Wan tells the kyber. “If you’re sure.” 

He takes up Qui-Gon’s lightsaber in his other hand, and ignites both blades at once. The vibration of the blades runs through his fingers and down his arms, energy that fizzles and crackles. Slowly he opens himself up to the Force once again, focused through the kyber crystals.

His master’s kyber nudges him gently. _Like this_ , it seems to murmur. Flashes of images flow through Obi-Wan: His master, the first time he had shown him this kata, how he had patiently guided his padawan through the new material. Arms like so, feet in the correct position. This way, padawan—a gentle correction, a light touch against his shoulder. 

_I did all that,_ Obi-Wan argues back. 

His master’s kyber seems to throw up its hands in consternation. _No_ , it says, faintly exasperated. _Remember._

A memory is pushed into his mind. His master, speaking to him. _A lightsaber wants to work,_ Qui-Gon had told him that day. _You must stay out of its way, Obi-Wan, and allow it to do its job._

The memory fades. 

“Oh,” Obi-Wan says out loud. “I think I see—thanks!”

He takes the sabers through the cadence again, but this time he does not keep himself slow and careful. He feels the insistent pull of his own kyber, and the steady support of Qui-Gon’s, and throws himself into the cadence, letting his kyber pick the pace. 

His sabers take him through the cadence in a whirlwind of motion.

When it is finished, he is panting and filled with exuberance. “I think I understand,” he tells the sabers, laughing breathlessly. They sing out to him, laughing along with him, glorying in the Force. “I was in your way, wasn’t I?”

His lightsaber chirrups gleefully. His master’s saber stretches languorously at having been put to work, but there is a twinkle of amusement that belies its composure. It is almost as though Qui-Gon is here in this room, his presence is so near.

“Next time I’ll leave it up to you,” he promises. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan is returning to his dormitory from his afternoon class when the lightsaber at his hip surges to sudden, unexpected life. He can sense the kyber inside, alert and keen, reaching for something. Someone. 
> 
> Qui-Gon.

Obi-Wan is returning to his dormitory from his afternoon class when the lightsaber at his hip surges to sudden, unexpected life. He can sense the kyber inside, alert and keen, _reaching_ for something. Someone. 

Qui-Gon.

“It can’t be him,” Obi-Wan tells the kyber. “He wasn’t supposed to return for a tenday more, he _said.”_

But the kyber is singing out _welcome_ and _home_ and _return._ It blithely assures Obi-Wan that he is wrong, that Qui-Gon is here, somewhere close, that Obi-Wan should go to him as swiftly as possible. 

“Well,” he says. “As long as you’re certain.” And he turns and heads back the way he came, not running exactly, but walking as quickly as he can without risking a reprimand from a passing docent or master. 

The kyber plucks at him distractedly, urging him this way and that, up hoverlifts and across corridors. It pulls him on a direct path toward Qui-Gon, unconcerned by such minor details as walls and rooms. Obi-Wan must take the kyber’s insistence on where Qui-Gon can be found and extrapolate from that sense a route through the Temple corridors. 

An image slips into his mind: A tall figure stepping from a transport, weariness apparent in the set of his shoulders. 

_Oh, I see,_ Obi-Wan realizes. Qui-Gon must be at one of the larger landing zones close to the base of the Temple. 

_Yes, yes,_ says the kyber, urging him on, _quite right, make haste._

He sees Qui-Gon as soon as he reaches the landing pad, a crumpled cloak and pack slung over the crook of his arm, hair pulled back into a loose braid. There is the weariness in the angle of his shoulders that the kyber had foreseen. 

The kyber nudges at him, but Obi-Wan hangs back, feeling unaccountably shy. He realizes now that his master will doubtlessly want time to return to his rooms, to get comfortable and clean, before dealing with overeager apprentices. 

_He might not want to see us just now,_ Obi-Wan explains to the kyber. _We ought to wait until he’s asked for me._

The kyber clucks at him reproachfully. _He will, he will._ Obi-Wan hovers in indecision. He almost turns away, but then Qui-Gon notices him.

“Obi-Wan?” his master asks in a baffled tone. Obi-Wan stops and turns back to him.

“I knew you’d come back,” he says. “I don’t mean to intrude—I only wished to greet you, that’s all. I missed you.”

“Well,” Qui-Gon says in tones of astonishment. The look of bafflement is slowly melting from his face, followed by another emotion Obi-Wan cannot parse. He is reminded suddenly of the long-haired boy from the memory, huddled away and alone. “Well.”

“I know you’re busy,” Obi-Wan says quickly. “I won’t keep you.”

“You might accompany me to my rooms,” Qui-Gon says. “I would be glad of the company. Tell me what has happened while I was away. Has Master Yoda located his gimer stick yet?”

So he trails Qui-Gon back across the Temple, discussing Temple gossip. Obi-Wan can’t help but look at Qui-Gon carefully from the corner of his eye, sneaking glances when he does not notice. His master looks different to him now that he has seen Qui-Gon through the kyber’s memories of him. It is easier to tell what he is thinking. The corners of his eyes crinkling means that he is pleased, even though he does not quite smile. 

Obi-Wan is speaking of his astronavigation class when Master Tril-Asoon overtakes them in the corridor. Obi-Wan breaks off his sentence. At his side, Qui-Gon’s kyber flares up protectively. 

Perhaps Qui-Gon catches a glimpse of his kyber’s reaction. He looks from Obi-Wan to Master Tril-Asoon, and his hand comes to land heavily on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Padawan Kenobi,” Master Tril-Asoon rumbles as he passes them, and Obi-Wan bows in response. “I was surprised to hear of your recent selection.”

There does not seem to be anything to say to this, other than polite acceptance. Obi-Wan bows slightly in acknowledgement, feeling the flush spreading across his face. “Thank you, master.”

“How do you know him?” Qui-Gon asks when Master Tril-Asoon has disappeared down the hall.

He rubs the hem of his cloak sleeve rather than look at his master’s expression. “He was one of the masters who came to talk to me, to see about training me. But he did not accept me. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Why must you have done something wrong?” his master asks quizzically.

“I must have,” Obi-Wan explains. “Or he would have taken me.”

Qui-Gon is frowning. “Did many masters come to talk to you?”

“A few,” Obi-Wan replies evasively. The question makes him feel unhappy. The kyber hums sympathetically. Qui-Gon says nothing, but his hand briefly tightens on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

\---

His master sighs with relief when they reach his rooms. 

“It is good to be back,” Qui-Gon murmurs. He palms the lock and the door hisses open, and Obi-Wan follows him inside, with some trepidation. It belatedly occurs to him that he has perhaps spent too much time in his master’s quarters.

Qui-Gon drops his cloak and pack untidily on the floor by the door and wanders around his room, looking at the dusted shelves and polished floors. He absently unties his braid absently and rumples his hair loose. “I confess, my rooms are far tidier than I expected to find.”

“I came here often, while you were away.” 

“I can tell,” Qui-Gon replies. “I can sense your presence here. Particularly in the kitchen,” he says wryly, glancing at the clean dishes stacked neatly in the cabinets. “A most pleasant state of affairs to return to, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan is tongue-tied, standing in his master’s doorway. “I’ll let you rest,” he offers. He cannot think of anything else to say.

But Qui-Gon shakes his head decisively. “Start some tea while I clean up,” he says instead as he heads to the refresher. “I presume you know where all the dishes are,” he calls over his shoulder. 

“I do,” Obi-Wan admits. “Tarine or blue nettle?” 

“Neither. You may choose what you like best.”

“Do you like sweetener in yours?”

“A bit of honey, thank you. Unless you’ve licked it all straight from the jar like a sulu-bear while I was away.”

If it hadn’t been for the kyber, Obi-Wan might have thought that his master was quite serious, and he would have quailed at Qui-Gon’s grave tone. Now, the quiver of amusement from his master’s lightsaber confirms what he might not have been able to understand. Qui-Gon is laughing at him, but only a little.

He scrambles towards the kitchen, in a hurry to fix the tea. Your choice, Qui-Gon had said. He passes over both the tarine and blue nettle in favor of a lighter green tea with the scent of jardine blossoms. He chooses the cobalt-blue teapot with the crack in the handle. He has discovered that of all Qui-Gon’s teapots, this one pours the best.

He sets the low table with the single remaining cobalt teacup in the set, and another cup made of a heavier white-glazed earthenware. Then, as an afterthought, he adds a plate of ginger biscuits he remembers finding at the back of Qui-Gon’s shelves. 

“Ah, the jardine. A fine choice,” Qui-Gon remarks when he emerges from the refresher, wearing a clean set of tunics and his damp hair tangled in knots. He picks up one of the ginger biscuits and examines it closely, then takes a bite. “Where did you find these, padawan? I thought I had finished the packet.” 

Obi-Wan concentrates on pouring the tea smoothly, without allowing a drop to splash the table or his sleeve, hanging over his hand. “You must have missed them. There was another sleeve hidden behind the spices.” 

“Thank you,” Qui-Gon says, accepting the cup. “Now, padawan. How have you gotten on with your training?” he asks. Obi-Wan does not miss the sharp glint in his eye. 

“Very well,” he answers. “I used your saber, like you told me to.”

Obi-Wan tells him about using both lightsabers in his practice, and how he’d come to understand the lesson. His master is almost as easy to talk to as his lightsaber, he realizes with some surprise. 

“Here, you can see,” he adds, holding out the saber. “I think it likes me, now.”

Qui-Gon takes the lightsaber from him. Obi-Wan can feel the kyber _reaching_ out to his master, delighted at the familiar presence. An unfamiliar expression flitters across his face, too fast for Obi-Wan to comprehend. 

“I believe it does,” he murmurs. “You’ve done well with it.” 

Qui-Gon returns the saber to him, then takes the last biscuit remaining on the plate. “Now off with you, for the time being,” he says. “I’ve a report to give to the Council. I shall attend your training this afternoon, if the councilors should take pity and let me off quickly.”

Obi-Wan walks slowly back to his rooms, his thoughts in a whirlwind. Thinking of how Qui-Gon had first seemed to him, when they had been introduced. Obi-Wan was aware that other masters were assigned padawans rather than make their own selection from among the initiates; generally these masters seemed pleased with the arrangement. He had tried to console himself with the thought that perhaps his new master would be one of those, greeting a new padawan with enthusiasm. 

But Qui-Gon had been so very quiet when he had first spoken to him. Obi-Wan had looked up at his new master’s solemn, unsmiling countenance and felt the last bit of hope wither away. 

_So he isn’t pleased to have me,_ Obi-Wan had thought, rebelliously stiffening his own face so that Qui-Gon could not see how he had been hurt. _He doesn’t want me at all._

Qui-Gon was not effusive, true. But he _had_ been pleased to see Obi-Wan just now. 

“I know you like me,” he tells the kyber. “Do you suppose it’s possible that he does, too?”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan sinks down to the floor behind him. In the mirror, he can see how Qui-Gon closes his eyes reverently. 
> 
> He knows this devotional by heart. He has performed it hundreds of times since he was a youngling, at the beginning of each lightsaber class and sparring match and tournament. He follows along at Qui-Gon’s measured pace, imbuing each gesture with meaning.

Qui-Gon does come to find him in the training room, though by the stiffness in his shoulders, Obi-Wan would venture to guess that his appearance had not come to pass from any mercy offered by the council. He has gathered from chance remarks that whatever masterly qualities Yoda sees in Qui-Gon are not shared by many of the other councilmembers.

But he spares a smile for Obi-Wan. “I am eager to see what you have learned in my absence.”

Qui-Gon accepts the return of his lightsaber when it is handed to him. He hooks the saber to his belt, then he crouches with his palms pressed flat on the floor and one knee raised to begin the devotional. 

Obi-Wan sinks down to the floor behind him. In the mirror, he can see how Qui-Gon closes his eyes reverently. 

He knows this devotional by heart. He has performed it hundreds of times since he was a youngling, at the beginning of each lightsaber class and sparring match and tournament. He follows along at Qui-Gon’s measured pace, imbuing each gesture with meaning.

Arms folded across his chest, the tips of his fingers barely touching— _ Honor your blade _ —sweeping his right arm out to side the side, then the left — _ Honor the ones who came before, who have passed on their wisdom _ —folding over to press brow and palms palms against the floor— _ Honor the ground beneath your feet _ —resuming his kneeling posture, fingertips pressed together at his brow— _ Honor your master _ —hands pressed against his heart— _ and, Jedi, trust in the Force.  _

Obi-Wan can almost hear his clan’s master speaking the words of the litany.

Then his master takes out his lightsaber and ignites the blade. 

“Ataru, level two cadence,” Qui-Gon says crisply, and they begin. 

His master is fluid lines, graceful in his movements. Obi-wan can tell, even with only his rudimentary knowledge of such things, how Qui-Gon and his saber are tuned together, working in seamless tandem.

A Jedi’s strength comes not from raw power or innate talent, but from their devotion: To daily practice, to their craft, and above all to the Force; Obi-Wan has been taught this since the day he became an initiate. And he had known it, but only in theory. Then he had learned it for himself, the first time he watched Qui-Gon teaching in the training rooms, warm amber light flowing in from the skylights above so that the kaowood floors glowed with orange and black-striped swirls and knots of wood. Qui-Gon is proof of the power of relentless practice. His master is truly a master of the craft. 

Yes, he is glad to be Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan.

Obi-Wan jumps into the first of the four katas that flow together to make up the level two cadences, throwing himself gladly into the practice. This time he knows to step out of the way of his lightsaber, and let his kyber guide him. 

When they reach the end of the cadence, his kyber is resonating with the Force; he can feel it for himself. He does not need Qui-Gon’s brief nod of confirmation to tell him that the lesson was really and truly learned, but it pleases him nonetheless.

“Let’s try something new,” Qui-Gon says unexpectedly. “I believe you are ready to attempt mirroring.”

His master has Obi-Wan stand behind him with their backs pressed together. Then Qui-Gon begins a series of randomly selected katas. The difficulty in mirroring lies in the fact that one of the partners must reverse the kata they are performing. Obi-Wan’s role is to match his master’s movements exactly. Qui-Gon slowly raises his right arm, and Obi-Wan must raise his left arm at exactly the same pace. 

When they first begin, Obi-Wan tries to guess which kata his master will choose next, to prepare himself for the reversal of the movement. 

“No, don’t try to anticipate my movements,” Qui-Gon advises him immediately. “Just follow my lead—turn your mind off, and find a flow. With me, not in anticipation of me.”

_ You’ve already learned this lesson, _ Qui-Gon’s kyber, resonating in his master’s hands, reminds him almost primly. 

Don’t get in my own way, Obi-Wan recognizes. Got it.

It is hard to lose himself in the flow with another person. Then, after a few minutes, Obi-Wan begins to be able to tell what Qui-Gon is planning to do next, and to move along with him. He can tell that Qui-Gon is cueing him purposefully, with exaggerated shifts in his weight to signal to Obi-Wan that he is about to turn. 

Obi-Wan follows him through the turn, keeping his back pressed against Qui-Gon’s, and through the slow diagonal slashes that follow. A Shii-Choo pattern, his mind thinks, and he switches off his brain before he can guess which kata might come next. 

Just follow him. Just follow him.

Obi-Wan only comes up to his master’s mid-back, which means that there are several moves that they are forced to problem-solve on the fly so that Qui-Gon’s lightsaber does not take off any of his apprentice’s appendages. Then Qui-Gon switches seamlessly from the kata he had begun to a series of steps across the kaowood floor, a pattern that Obi-Wan almost recognizes. Step, slide, step-step, slide. Not any kind of lightsaber kata, but rather...

“The Alderannian sun waltz?” he asks out loud, incredulous, falling into the steps of the folk dance without conscious thought. He had learned it as a youngling, as had every Jedi for the past several hundred years. The children’s dance had been a staple of his earliest lessons, meant to teach the youngest Jedi grace and the rudiments of rhythm. 

He feels the waves of mirth dancing from his master, and Qui-Gon’s kyber winks at him. So this is the sense of humor that the kyber had insisted must exist in Qui-Gon, despite all outward appearances. 

Halfway through the next three-point turn, Qui-Gon gives the lead over to him. Obi-Wan can tell the moment his master stops leading and tosses control over their movements to his padawan. Obi-Wan, surprised, falters momentarily, but recovers in time to complete the turn. 

Then he tries out his master’s reflexes, jumping straight from the turn into another Shii-Choo kata,  _ Petals-opening-in-spring _ , speeding up the pace. Qui-Gon adjusts his tempo accordingly, following his student unerringly. 

Petals opening, one by one, marked by six jabs in both directions, beginning above the head and ending with the blade pointed at the ground. When the kata is finished, Qui-Gon takes over the lead again, and Obi-Wan gives up control with relief. He is taken into an Ataru pattern, only recently learned, and once that kata is finished, Qui-Gon halts. 

Obi-Wan stops at the same moment, his lightsaber in a mirrored image of Qui-Gon’s. He can’t stop grinning. He has enjoyed coming into his own as a practitioner of Ataru, but this, _ this _ , working in perfect tandem—he had never thought he could enjoy working as a team so much. 

Qui-Gon twists and takes hold of his shoulders, spinning him around until they are face-to-face. “Well done, padawan,” he says. “Well done, indeed.”

There is a drop of sweat dripping down his master’s slightly crooked nose. Obi-Wan knows now exactly how that nose had acquired its distinctive appearance. The kyber had ruefully showed him the memory once, almost shaking its head over Qui-Gon’s inherent penchant for attracting trouble. 

“We never used to be able to do that before,” Obi-Wan pants, still grinning. “What changed?”

Qui-Gon's countenance is serene, but the kyber gives him away; Obi-Wan can feel the warmth spreading slowly through the Force.  “We did." 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
